A Spanking in October
by Jellico
Summary: If ever an opportunity was missed in a period piece movie to show a stern father giving his reckless teenaged son a well-deserved spanking, that moment was in the film, October Sky. Set in 1957, here's my take on what should have happened once Jake Gyllenhaal's character was lectured in public after an experiment gone wrong then angrily sent home by his crusty dad.


Standing in the cold drizzle outside his office at the mine, John Hickam was far from a happy father. There was glass all over the floor behind him, his face was almost black from fresh gunpowder, and the whole damn town knew the younger of his two sons was the culprit.

_Why the hell couldn't Homer be more like his big brother, Jim? Was it really so much for a man to ask for?_

John had long ago ceased to wonder, and his impatience with his second son was clear as he wound down his lecture. "Don't you _ever_ let me catch you with these fool things on company property again, you understand me?"

Feeling the full brunt of his father's disappointment in him, Homer nodded his understanding. He was embarrassed at being scolded in public like this but he definitely knew better than to protest. "Yes, sir."

"Good," John fired back. "Now go home." Suddenly all too aware of his colleagues standing behind him, who might have died seconds ago thanks to his boneheaded offspring, John's voice took on a harder edge. "In fact, when you get there, Homer, you go straight to your room and wait for me. We're gonna have us a real long talk tonight when I catch up with you, son, 'cause I've had just about enough of these idiot stunts of yours. First you blow up your mother's fence, then you're stealin' company property to make these, these _bombs_—"

"It's not a bomb, Dad. It's—"

"—and now this. Well, this is the last straw, understand me? You're gettin' a spankin' tonight and a damn good one if I have anythin' to say about it."

If a boy could spontaneously die of shame, Homer was sure he'd be six feet under. He flushed bright red as he glanced at the mining executives grouped behind his father, who abruptly decided they'd much rather go back inside. Embarrassed even more by this, Homer looked at John plaintively the second they were gone, his voice much lower now to keep anybody else from overhearing. "A _spankin'_, Dad?! But I'm seventee—"

"I don't care how old y'are, Homer. You're gettin' exactly what I said y'are and that's that."

"No, Dad, please! You can't!"

"Oh yes, I can and I damn well intend to. You still wanna be actin' like a dumb child at your age, son? All right then, by golly, I'll treat you like one. You're gettin' a hard spankin' come four hours from now and it's your own damn fault, so don't even try tellin' me it isn't."

"But-But Daddy—"

"I don't wanna hear any 'but daddys' outta you, son, and I don't wanna hear anymore arguments neither, not this time." John gestured angrily in the direction of their company house. "Go on home to your ma like I told you ... did you hear me, boy? Git!"

Homer had no choice. He took one last baleful look at the parent who'd just humiliated him worse than any father had ever shamed his son in the history of the world, and then he did as he'd been told. He got going. Stumbling at first, he soon found his feet and began to speedwalk until the knowledge of what awaited later became too much to bear and he began to run. If he'd had any money, he would have left town completely, just run and run and run until his breath gave out and his shoes were in tatters, but he didn't have any money, not on him, or at home, or even hidden in the woods in a coffee can. He didn't have a single red cent to his name, and because he didn't know where he'd go even _with_ a few dollars in his pocket, Homer ran exactly where his father told to.

He ran home.

In the house, he charged down the hall directly to his room and slammed the door after him while he tore off his woolen jacket. He couldn't bring himself to answer his mother's call despite the worry in her voice, so when she knocked on his door then pushed it open, he quickly turned his back.

"Homer? Homer, what is it? What's the matter?"

A scowling Homer was silent for almost a minute before he sniffed and hunched his shoulders. "My last rocket flew into town and landed in Dad's office."

"Good Lord!" Elsie gasped. "Was anybody hurt?"

"No, but ... but Dad's madder'n a hornet at me and he says ... he says ..."

"He says what?"

Homer swiped a hand across his eyes and turned to his mother, the expression on his face a clear mixture of outrage and betrayal. "He says I'm gettin' a spankin' for it soon as he gets home. Can you believe that, Mom? A spankin' like I'm nine years old again."

"Oh." Elsie's brow furrowed as she looked out the window toward the mine. Eventually, she went over to her youngest, her tone low as she ran a warm hand down his back. "Well, what you did was awful dangerous, young man. You mighta killed somebody with that rocket o' yours. You've just got to take more care—" As Homer promptly shrugged off her touch and stalked to the far side of his bedroom, Elsie looked after him with a sigh. "Your dad probably just wants to make sure you think of that the next time you get it into your head to light one of them things."

"I will anyway," Homer insisted angrily. "I don't need a spankin' from Dad to remember that."

Elsie murmured something noncommittal and folded her hands inside her apron, wishing she knew how else to console her son. There wasn't anything she could say though that would sound sincere, especially since more than half of her agreed with her husband's decision, so she went over to Homer, and kissed his cheek, then turned to leave. The second she did, however, he called after her.

"It's not fair, Mom. Dad's gonna roast my rear end like I'm still a little kid instead of nearly eighteen. He would never do this to Jim. It's not fair!"

Elsie turned back and gazed on him with sympathy. "Oh honey, it won't be so bad. You know your dad would never really hurt you—"

"He'll hurt me enough," Homer complained. "And he won't stop until he makes me cry just like he's always done before. And what if Jim's home and he hears it and tells all the kids at school?"

"Your brother won't dare do such a thing," Elsie insisted firmly. "And if he does, he'll have me to answer to. Nineteen or not, I can still take my wooden spoon to his hide, all right?"

Homer wasn't the least bit comforted. He turned his back once more on his mother until she got the hint and left him alone, and then he lay down in bed, turned on his side and brooded about what was in store for his behind. He hated his father's lack of understanding and he absolutely detested the anticipation of waiting for a whipping. Eventually, he got up, went to his desk and tried working on some of his homework, but book reports require concentration and that wasn't an ability Homer possessed right now. He slammed his books shut and glared out the window at the cloudy sky for a spell, then he bolted from his chair and paced the length of his room while chewing on his thumbnail.

By the time his father came in three hours later, Homer's stomach was in knots.

He listened to the man's voice on the other side of his door and tensed up even more, knowing it wouldn't be long at all before John Hickam entered his bedroom.

He wasn't wrong.

In less than a minute, the head superintendent of the Coalwood mining company had barged in and closed the door behind him, then strode to his son's desk, scraped the chair back, and plunked it well out of the way. Immediately, Homer's hands drifted rearward to cover his bottom.

"L-Listen, Dad. I know I was wrong to—"

"Hands on the desk, son. Let's get this over with."

Homer took a look at the paddle John was armed with and clutched his bottom tighter. The blade was only four inches long and half an inch thick, but it was still going to hurt something awful. He remembered it all too clearly from the last time.

"I'm sorry, Dad. _Please_. I-I swear I don't need this, Daddy. I—"

"And I'm past caring what you think you need or don't need, young man. You ain't a father yet, I am, and my experience tells me you need exactly what I'm about to give you. Now bend over."

When Homer couldn't bring himself to step forward on his own, John reached out, pulled him over and forced him to bow at the waist. The second his son's palms made contact with the desktop, John used his left hand to get a firm grip on the waistband of the boy's jeans and hoist them straight up, and then with his right hand, he raised the paddle high then brought it down decisively.

The connecting whack was unmistakable and so too was the howl that Homer couldn't help but release as soon as he felt the burn. Outside, the heavy storm clouds that had been forming all day released their contents with thunder and lightning cracking the sky one after the other, but neither could hold a candle to the goings-on in Homer's room. In the kitchen, Jim took a bite of his pumpkin pie and grinned around his fork while his mother rattled the dishes behind him as loudly as she could without actually breaking them.

Down the hall, of course, John kept spanking and Homer kept yelling.

_"Dad!"_

_"Daddy!"_

_"P-Please, Daddy, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry!"_

Not once did John reply, not to scold, not to tell his son to hush up, not to say anything at all. He let his right hand do all the talking, and boy, did it have plenty to say.

As the recipient of this very thorough "lecture", Homer made it very clear to his family that he heard every "word". Over and over as the paddle made blistering contact with his behind, Homer cried out, clutched his desk in a death-grip and wiggled his hide to try and get it out of the line of fire, ashamed of his childishness yet helpless to stop it. He wanted desperately to survive his punishment with his dignity intact, but his goal was next to impossible. Never once before had he been able to take a licking from his dad like a man; it hurt too much and tonight was definitely no different. From the very first swat, Homer's eyes were spouting tears, his eyes squinched shut and his mouth opened wide in a continuous boyish cry. Way down below was an equal disgrace for there was no way at all he could keep his feet still under the constant onslaught. With each and every swat, his shoes left the floor and tried to fly across the room, useless attempts, each and every one, to try and mitigate the agony.

It seemed his spanking would never end, but close to ten hellish minutes later, it was finally over.

Still bent across the desk, a blubbering Homer reached back gingerly to test the seat of his jeans, certain that the material had been beaten right off and that his bright red backside was mooning the room. It wasn't, of course, but this knowledge wasn't any kind of comfort. In all his years growing up, the tearful teenager couldn't remember _ever_ receiving a harder whipping, or a longer one, and the bitter look on his face as he slowly straightened up and faced his father said exactly that.

As usual, John Hickam wasn't the least bit interested. He raised the heated paddle still firmly gripped in his right hand and he held it up for his sniffling son to see.

"You know now what you can expect if I see any more of your fool rockets in town?"

Homer brushed an arm across his wet face then clutched his aching bottom protectively. "Y-Yes, sir."

"Good. Now go to sleep."

Frankly, there wasn't anything Homer wanted to do more. He didn't even care that he'd missed supper and wouldn't get another meal for twelve more hours. Full up with resentment, he watched his father leave with that hateful, blasted paddle, and then he stretched out in bed still fully dressed and holding his rear end. He buried his head under his pillow and let the tears fall once more until there just weren't any more left to shed, and after that, he pushed his pillow aside, wiped his face dry and stared out the window, sulking at the darkened sky.

The Russian's Sputnik 1 satellite was impossible to see this night with the rain coming down so hard outside, but that was all right. Homer didn't need to see it to regain his motivation. He already knew where else he could launch his homemade rockets free of his dad _and_ company property, and as soon as morning came he was going to do exactly that. And he didn't care if his dad didn't approve of his dream to reach the stars.

He didn't care at all.


End file.
